


Of Winters and Springs

by msOdds



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Multi, Mystery, Mythology - Freeform, Other Characters - Freeform, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Snowfallen Wilson, Verdant Maxwell, even the Giants are here, folk lore, how much angst can this story contain? The answer will suprise ya, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-26 01:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msOdds/pseuds/msOdds
Summary: There is a legend, a love story as old as time, told around campfires of civilizations long forgotten.It's the legend of the Son of Winter, and the King of Spring....It was a different era then, when creatures and gods walked the earth and mankind was naive and young. In summer, a beast - part dragon, part fly - roamed the realm. It was larger than life, its scales the size of a grown man’s palms and its claws as big as said man’s torso. It left the ground scorched and forests burnt everywhere it went. In Autumn, you might come across a kind Beaver man within the vast pinewood in the North. He would bring you enough timber to keep the fireplace burning all winter if you praised his fur and helped him find his beloved...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is indeed a poor attempt to write Verdant Maxwell/ Snowfallen Wilson. A lot of AU and world building and angst. It's also the first time I try writing anything like this so please tell me what you think.

There is a legend, a love story as old as time, told around campfires of civilizations long forgotten. It’s the legend of the Son of Winter, and the King of Spring.

 

The snow was thick and cold, but no colder than the man treading on it. And what a strange man he was, dressing lightly despite the harsh weather, with only a flimsy white tunic, blue pants and a tattered scarf on his small frame. His naked feet didn’t leave even the barest hint of footprint, even though any human of his height would be knee deep in the freezing snow.

“That’s because he isn’t human…” the elders explained, stroking their long beard, as white as the strange man’s complexion - “…He is a Snowfallen.” One of the many children of Winter, who left the comfort of their snow covered mountains to explore the land down bellow when lakes froze over and birchnut trees were leafless.

It was a different era then, when creatures and gods walked the earth and mankind was naive and young. In summer, a beast - part dragon, part fly - roamed the realm. It was larger than life, its scales the size of a grown man’s palms and its claws as big as said man’s torso. It left the ground scorched and forests burnt everywhere it went. In Autumn, you might come across a kind Beaver man within the vast pinewood in the North. He would bring you enough timber to keep the fireplace burning all winter if you praised his fur and helped him find his beloved… and in Spring…

“What happens in Spring?”

“Be patient, we’ll get there.”

The strange man was anxious, the sun was setting, and even he was wary of the beings lurking in the night. That was one of the few things he shared with mortal - his fear of darkness. Men never ventured outside of their home when daylight died, and neither did the Snowfallens. Often, children whispered to each other about a woman in black. ‘Do not go out at night, always bring a torch’ they said, voice low so that _she_ couldn’t hear them ‘Else the Grue comes and takes you away.’

His right hand snaked into his pants’ pocket, searching for a twinkling star within it. The star was six-winged, pulsing and glowing with energy. He pinned it to his tunic - right where his heart was, and let out a breath of relief, feeling slightly safer. He shouldn’t have been afraid, the strange man ridiculed himself, the star would be bright enough to light his path when night eventually fall and ward off the Grue and her nasty nocturnal underlings.

The star had always been with him for as long as he could remember. “A gift from a star-crossed lover from another life” his siblings used to jest, and he would yell “shut up” at them. However, every now and then, on the odd days that loneliness caught up to him, he toyed with the idea. Wouldn’t that be nice? To be so loved that the gods put a star in your possession?

Just then, he saw what he was searching for. A little creature with white, fluffy fur and tiny horns was bouncing toward him.

“Chester! Don’t ever do that to me again! Where have you been?” The man hissed.

The creature answered by lolling out its tongue, revealing blood red petals. Any child could tell you they came from flowers, obviously, but he didn’t know that. The strange man picked the petals up, studying them with eyes the shade of the sky on a clear December morning. Snowfallens rarely, if not never, saw flower in their long existence. The world they lived in was a frozen wasteland of blue, white and gray.

“Where did you find these?” He asked, curiosity overtaking his previous uneasiness. Moment ago, all he could think about was finding Chester and retreating home fast, now he was ready to go and see where these peculiar things came from. He had always been odd like that - even by his people’s standard. He often sneaked into villages and brought back trinkets and trash, worthless to both the Snowfallens and humankind, but priceless to him. The strange man liked to tinker, to see how and what made things work. His siblings couldn’t stand that. It was unbecoming of a Snowfallen, they said. He was too weird, they said.

They blamed him for his sister’s queerness, for her obsession with fire.

Chester turned around and bounced the direction it came from. The strange man followed, quickly and with ease.

They walked up a particular large mound, from where the strange man looked down and saw something even stranger. Flowers, red and white and yellow and purple and colors he couldn’t name, were growing out of a patch of snow in the frozen meadow. Never in his life, in all 250 winters he had wandered, had he witnessed such thing. He scrambled over. It was Chester’s turn to run behind, barking excitedly at its master; its stumpy legs couldn’t quite catch up. But the strange man didn’t slow down. By the time he was kneeling before the flowerbed, his face was blushing blue from the exertion and Chester was only half way down the slope. 

He laughed, plucking a heartsease, tearing off its petals to view pistil and anthers. His head quickly memorized their shapes. He did the same to the grape hyacinths, the bloodroots, the daffodils, the tulips… until his lap was covered in colorful petals and stalks. Were he in a bit more rational state of mind, the strange man would think to save a few for later studies. Alas, he kept tearing into them like an oversized child until there was nothing left but a single rose stem. He reached out for it.

Blood red petals

The strange man sobered up at that moment and, suddenly, he was hesitant. It made no sense - he had no qualm about destroying the other flowers, but this one left rocks in his belly. He felt a tingling feeling - like he was being watched. He noticed how the sun was much lower on the horizon now, the sky purple and orange like the blooms he just plucked.

The star on his chest was pulsing harder, glowing brighter.

He should go back.

A hand, or perhaps it was not a hand - it was dark brown, twisting and rough like the roots of an ancient pine tree, shot out of the snow and wrapped tightly around his thin wrist. He yelped, tugging his hand in vain, eyes wide in terror. A creature rose out of the whiteness. He saw first its antlers, then its hooked nose, then lots and lots of green, and finally its eyes - beneath the leaves that stood in place for its brows.

And what lovely eyes they were, like two pools of honey, but so so much colder.

“He is the king of Spring, ruler of the Verdant,” the elders continued, “but don’t let his name fool you, the king can be very cruel, and the Son of Winter has woken him up before his time. The king only rises out of his bed of earthly soil when snow has melted away and the sky starts to drizzle.”

The king wasn’t pleased. He stared down at the fool whom he still had in a tight grip. He easily dwarfed the Son of Winter even without his crown of antlers and leaves.“Say pal,” he rumbled, “that wasn’t very nice of you. What do you have to say for your action?”

The silly creature struggled harder; he saw fear in its eyes, heard its rabbit heart. It even looked like one too, with its thick curly hair like snowshoe hare. A Snowfallen - the King quickly put a name to it. He hadn’t seen one in millennia.

The King of Spring wasn’t unfamiliar with a winter dweller for he hadn’t always hibernated. He used to travel, either on feet or by mounts, to the deepest of caves and the the tallest of mountains. He used to have many friends, too: a silent verdant artist, a Snowfallen warrior strong enough to break rocks with his bare hands…

A beautiful lady draped in dresses as dark as a moonless night.

But one day he stopped. He started digging his own grave and laid in it at the end of every Spring, only crawled out when the frost was over

The King laid his eyes on the Snowfallen’s heaving chest, on its pulsing star, and he faltered.

He used to have a lover, too. Although it had been so long ago that all he could remember was pieces and pieces of their appearances: their charcoal hair, their twinkling eyes, their infectious laugh…

He used to call them his shooting star, because they came and went in a flash of an eye. Such was the price of loving a mortal.

The Son of Winter finally wrenched his hand free and ran before the King could recover.

Even when he was in a hurry, there wasn’t a footprint left in his wake.  
  



	2. I

With begrudging voices, any Snowfallen would agree with you that fire was a necessity. At the very least, they needed it to cook and to keep the Grue at bay. But their appreciation for the element didn’t go beyond that of simple acknowledgement; and their relationship with it could only be described as a love-hate one. Certainly, if they had figured out a way to live without fire, they would have done so. Fire produced heat, and heat was a foreign concept that a Snowfallen’s body wasn’t meant to be subjected to. They were children of Winter, after all. Creatures of frost and ice. They looked human on the surface, yet so different.

But there was a part of Wilson that would always find comfort in fire. It went beyond simple gratitude, crept into an uncharted territory of his subconsciousness, and left him feeling both forlorn and merry - like longing for an old love that never existed. If he stared into the fire long enough, he could almost smell something, hear something, see something.

But these past few days, the fire pit of his camp provoked none of those things.

“A trinket for your thought?”

He tore his eyes away from the flame and looked at the other person who was sitting close to it. _Way too close_ , Wilson thought. Willow was within a hair’s breadth of touching the fire. It was twisting and turning like a skilled gypsy within its prison, casting her in a bright orange hue. It was a mystery how she could stand it. Wilson’s skin itched just by the sight of her, phantom ants crawling beneath it.

He told his sister, tone carrying disapproval. “Don’t you think that’s a bit too close?"

“Don’t change the subject, brother dear.” She rolled her eyes but stood up and walked over to him anyway, if not for her own sake then for Wilson’s. She flopped down next to the troubled male, plucked Chester from his lap and played with its white fur. “I know something is up with you. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Batilisk’s wing!” She huffed. “You’ve been brooding around the camp for days now, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Wilson had a habit of setting out early in the morning, and usually returning only when the sun was threatening to set. He rarely stuck around the base during the day unless there was something that required his presence. His penchant for wandering didn’t irk Willow. She trusted him with taking care of himself out in the wild, much like how he trusted her with the manmade lighter he had scavenged on one of his trips to a human’s village.

But when Wilson stayed cooped up in their camp for a prolonged duration, something was certainly, definitely wrong.

Wilson opened his mouth, another “nothing” was on the tip of his tongue. However, one look at her somber expression and he swallowed it back. He contemplated for a moment then said. “I… saw something, the other day. I-it is, I don’t know what it is. It’s very strange. I mean, it looks like us and the warm-blooded, you know…” She nodded along, not sure where this story was going. “…But it’s not.” He added lamely.

“What does it look like then?”

 _It had two great antlers that were more wood than bones, a cloak made of leaves that had no reason to be so fresh and **green** at this time of the year, and eyes like the eyes of those things in the dark that sometimes watched them, often accompanied by an eerie woman’s chuckles_.

“I-I can’t recall.” He answered nervously. For some reasons, unknown to even himself, the appearance of the beast was too private, _too personal_ to be shared freely.

Willow, either bought the lie or ignored it, asked another question. “Did you get hurt?”

“No.” The beast’s grip had been unyielding but not at all painful. And when Wilson hightailed out of that meadow, it hadn’t attempted to go after him. He had made it back to the camp scotch free, if not a little shaken.

“Is it dangerous?” There was fear in her voice, just a tiny bit.

“He won’t hurt us.” Wilson said without missing a beat; the words came out naturally as if he was stating some fundamental facts like “fire is hot” or “ice is cold”, not defending an unknown being that had actually threatened him in their short interaction.

If Willow noticed how he’d referred the beast as “he” instead of “it”, she said nothing. Even Wilson didn’t realize his own slip-up. His eyes found the fire pit again.They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the crackling fire and the odd birds that were still singing at night. Even Chester was quiet too, having fallen asleep at some point.

His mind wandered.

* * *

 

There were two men, one short and one tall, one mortal and the other otherworldly. They sat side by side in front of a well contained fire, opposite a little cabin that had seen better days, and surrounded by endless pines.

The clouds above them hung low. A few snowflakes drifted down, but melted before they could properly touch the earth. It wasn’t time for them yet. Autumn still clung on stubbornly in the last patch of pumpkins outside the cabin and in the few red leaves that birchnut trees still refused to shred. Oh, how the tall man wished for it to stay longer. But even without his keen sense, he could tell that the presence of said season was waning. Days were getting shorter and nights were becoming longer. There were whispers in the wind, promising the arrival of a new ruler, of Winter.

“I don’t like Winters” He grumbled, not for the first time, and not for the last time either.

“You are melancholic.” His partner laughed, puffs of hot air left his mouth as he did so. He wore much more layers than his taller companion, but his shoulders trembled ever so slightly when a particular large gust of wind blew by and his nose was rosy pink from coldness. This worried the tall man. Unfortunately for him, the short man refused to go inside. He wanted to see the sun set.

“It’s so beautiful…”

“It’s the same thing as always, pal.” The tall man interjected. “The sun goes down and the moon goes up. Some days there are stars, and some days there are clouds. Some days, it’s pit black and there is nothing at all. But in the end, it’s the same thing year-round. There aren’t anything new.” He sounded cynical. His long existence had made him cynical, made him rough and cold, more so than the upcoming season.

But the short man was tolerant. He was in his 40s now, wiser and calmer compared to when they first met. “Good thing I’m not as oldand grumpy as you’re, Max.” He stroke the tawny fur of a dog-like creature that was sleeping by his leg. It -the little horned monster with bottomless stomach- was a gift from the tall man. “Besides… it’s beautiful because I’m watching it with you.” He said with a bashful smile.

That very moment, the tall man _saw_. He saw salt and pepper in his lover’s hair and the first hints of crow’s feet around his eyes. He saw himself digging a grave right here, by the stupid vegetable garden that the short man liked so much. He saw _her_ , bursting out laughing andpointing a clawed finger at his grief stricken face.

“Are you sad, Maxy?” She would mock him. “Are you sad that your little mouse died? You should’ve done to him what you did to me.” She would then gesture at herself, a beautiful, but monstrous creature of Shadow. “Then he would’ve lived. He would’ve been able to be with you until the end of time. You’re a cruel one, Maxy! You denied him happiness! He can never see you again!”

Daylight was dying, and it wasn’t the only one.

* * *

  
To prove to Willow that he wasn’t an invalid, he left the camp the following day with a promise to return before dawn.

“I’m going to see how the MacTusks are doing.” He said, strapping on his backpack. The MacTusks were a family of walruses who lived not so far from their camp. Like the Winterfallens, they lived here for the duration of the cold season, then went elsewhere when Spring came. Wilson and his sister often traded with them, logs for meat, eggs for beefalo’s wool… just to name a few. The MacTusks, dubbed MacTusk N’ Son, were good hunters.

“Are you going to be fine on your own?”

“Yeah…” He said absentmindedly, adjusting the star on his tunic. Chester was running circles around him, thrilled to be going on an adventure after the short hiatus. “Tell Webber I say hi.” He grabbed a spear on his way out, just in case. Willow nodded. She was going to visit another Winterfallen’s camp. There was a little child there, Webber, whom she had sworn on “Father’s shaggy beard” (her words, not his) to take ice-fishing.  
  
The air was crisp; the sky was blue without a stratum of cloud. Wilson set out with high hope and childish daydream about honey hams.

* * *

  
One of MacTusk’s blue hounds was dead.

The thing had been cleaved in half, flayed open. Its frozen blood dirtied the otherwise pure white snow. Wilson was never a big fan of the animal - it was aggressive, attacking anything that was small enough to fit inside its mouth, himself and Chester included- but seeing it like this was unsettling.  
  
Wee was crying by his father’s side. The older MacTusk spoke collectedly, but Wilson could see anger lurking beneath the facade. “Don’t know what could’ve done this. He was like this when we found him this morning. Can’t be the Deerclop, we would have heard it a mile away!”

Wilson investigated the corpse. There was something, half hidden by snow and the cooled blood of the hound. He bended down, looking closer.

It was a leaf, broad and green.  
  
“Mr. MacTusk…” He began. “… did you go hunting yesterday?”

“We did… We tracked a… no-eyed deer, I think. A big one too! A shame that we couldn’t capture it. It was too dark. But no matter…” The walrus’s eyes glinted. “…it couldn’t have gone far, I wounded it with my trusty darts! Me and my boy will find it after we give Benjin here a proper burial.”

He rambled on, but Wilson was only half paying attention. His gut was heavy with realisation. He knew what killed MacTusk’s hound.

The Winterfallen was suddenly fearful, but not for himself, the ignorant walruses or his sister.

“Mr. MacTusk, I know this is not the right time, but do you mind trading with me?”

* * *

 

In the end, he traded all the spider silk he’d brought for a handful of salves, bandages and some small jerkies. The MacTusks gave him odd looks when he hurriedly shoved them into his backpack. The deal was clearly one-sided. If it were any other days, Wilson would be in a yelling match with the family, calling the walrus-with-a-dart ‘stingy’ or ‘greedy’. But here he was, meekly took his share without a single complaint.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”  
  
Wilson shook his head. He went back the way he came from -in the direction of his camp- then when he was a good distance away, took a sharp turn and trekked toward the pinewood where the MacTusks last saw “the deer”.

He walked and walked. The clearing he had been in was replaced by large evergreens and rock boulders. With every step he took, doubt slithered in and chipped away at his bravado.  _Stupid,_ he thought, _there is no way it’s still there. If it could still go out of its way to get revenge on the hound, it could be anywhere now. You’re just bringing trouble to yourself, Wilson._ And why was he helping the damned thing? It was clearly dangerous! _The beast spared you once, doesn’t mean it will do it again!_ A voice hissed at the back of his head.

“It isn’t right…” Wilson said to no one in particular. “…it-HE is stranded out here all alone, hurt. Like an animal waiting for slaughter."

Chester barked, snapping him out of his monologue.The forest, he realized, was dead quiet. There was nothing, no birds, no small critters, not even the snarls of the dreadful spiders that usually plagued this kind of biome.    
  
The forest was a sacred ground, a sanctuary, and he was invading it.

“What is it?” He asked his only companion. Chester barked again and, without waiting for him, shot through a barren berry bush on the left side of the path, moving surprisingly fast despite its size.

Wilson ran after it. Branches and twigs whipped him as he ran pass them, trying to keep Chester within his line of sight. It was much harder to run in a forest -where there were plenty of obstacles and sharp flints that could cut his feet. Chester took him deeper into the pinewood. Around him, darkness was drawing closer. It’d be dusk soon- Winter days were painfully short, after all - and the thick foliages helped little. They didn’t allow much light to penetrate in the first place. On his chest, the star was bubbling over with energy. It was beating heavily, rhythmically, almost like a heart.

Finally, just when Wilson wondered how much more he had to go, Chester disappeared into a small cave that any less observant men would've missed, hidden behind three frozen shrubs. Its barks resonated, beckoning him to follow. Wilson paused at the entrance. Just in front of him, a purple gladiolus poked out of the snow, standing proud like a sword.   
  
His brain was sending out all kinds of signals how this was a terrible idea, but his heart -beating in union with the six-winged star, with the _thing_ that was waiting in there- disagreed.

He followed, his body moved on its own accord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beep boop, I had fun with this chapter. It's not as mysterious as the last chapter, but eh, I like it all the same. I also tried (and failed) being a bit sneaky and put in some hints here and there. Please tell me what you think about them ^^

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Ivon for this lovely piece of art! ;v; Idk what more to say.  
> Here is her blog: https://ivonnais.tumblr.com/


End file.
